Recipe for Disaster
by blindkitten
Summary: When John stumbles onto the wrong hunt, the price could be his boys, but that is a price he's not willing to pay. Preseries, Sam is 15, Dean 19.
1. Chapter 1

_For those of you who have read my earlier stories, I've mentioned this already, but I just wanted to say it again. This story is inspired by a lot of conversations with (mostly) dljensengirl88 over John and his relationships with his sons and why they are the way they are and what's really behind them. I knew my next story was going to be mostly John-centric (though my Dean girl-ness will probably shine through) and show his taking care of his sons. What I didn't know was exactly what plotline to use. Either way it would be rather whumpy, but one of the two ideas I had it narrowed down to was really, really dark and I opted away from it, both because it was darker and because it was a much larger endeavor. I might reboot that one eventually, which will end me up with two essentially identical stories, but I feel they both have their own merits and whatnot. Anyway, this one was the one I decided to do for now. All mythology is totally made up. I thought I might research an actual monster and try to fit this story into it… but it just never really fit with the story I was trying to write. Hopefully, the logic will be sound anyway._

_I don't know how often I will be updating. At the moment, I'm right in the middle of a story I plan to really work at and get published – not to mention AP tests are starting soon. I'll try to keep it going (especially since I know how it ends) fairly regularly, but I'll be honest. The less reviews there are, the slower I'll be, since I feel like the sloppier my writing/ideas are, the less reviews I get. I'll still finish, of course, but I just wanted to mention that. Anyway, that all aside, on with the show!_

_Also, Dean is 19, Sam is 15. So… after Sam's a teen but before the Stanford drama._

_Disclaimer: Please. I don't own Supernatural._

Sam was sulking.

Ever since he'd turned about thirteen, that was almost a given. John tried his best to ignore his youngest in the backseat. He wanted to say something about how Sam would like it in this new place, how the school had an awesome debate team (was Sam still involved in that?) or how he'd once helped the landlady with a poltergeist a few years ago and they would have an actual house to live in for once, but he had no doubt that efforts to placate his youngest would only end up with another fight between them.

They had only had their last one a few hours ago, throwing them into a stifling silence. Dean occasionally tried to crack a joke, but even he had stopped a while ago, settling for occasionally peeking in the rearview mirror to see if Sam was still holding up, still moderately alright as he slumped against the window, glaring at the world around them, as though blaming it for sliding away from them, putting more distance between them and their latest temporary home.

John had said some bad things to his son, he knew, but he could hardly remember what they were or what he and Sam had really been fighting about. Everything with Sam just turned into a haze of fury. Hell, if anyone asked him where Dean had even _been_ during that fight, he couldn't have answered.

"We'll be there soon," he said gruffly.

"Thank god," Dean said loudly. "I'm starving." He looked back at Sam subtly, but all he got for his efforts was another round of dark mutterings. He swallowed and sank back into his seat, fighting not to show his misery.

"We'll be staying in a real nice house," John offered, but that had just as little effect as Dean's prodding. "And a great school, I hear."

"That we'll be leaving," Sam gritted out under his breath.

John swallowed down his annoyance at Sam's stubborn melancholy. He wished Sam would just see what they were fighting against, why he kept following after it – to save people, to keep _them_safe. He let out an exasperated breath. "Give it a try, Sam," he said, as patiently as he could. "You never know what could happen."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam was silent during registration. That was a bad sign. Sam usually tried to start off every school with a good impression on everyone. At the moment, the best he did was not glare at the principal. John looked at his youngest and made a note to ask Dean if there was something special about the latest place they had left. Sam was acting even more bent out of shape than usual, and if there was a reason, Dean would know.

"Have a nice day, Sam," he said, trying to open the door for peace between them.

Sam grumbled something, snatching his schedule from John's hand and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. The bell rang, sending teens flowing from the doors, and Sam vanished into the crowd without so much as a goodbye. "Love you too," John muttered sarcastically, heading back to the car. Sam would get over this eventually.

Dean was on the phone when John came home. He was laughing at something, but he tapered off when John came in, taking off his jacket. "Yeah, Bobby, Dad's home, I've gotta go," Dean said quickly, grinning at something before hanging up.

"What'd he tell ya?" John asked, sitting into the armchair and crossing his arms.

Dean scooted forward eagerly, ready to tell him the specifics of the nearby hunt Joshua had mentioned to them. "Bobby's pretty sure it's a black dog," Dean said happily. "The marks on the bodies and the hunting patterns fit."

John nodded. "Should be simple enough, then," he said, standing up to go for breakfast. Dean seemed slightly miffed that his moment was already over. John rolled his eyes. Trust Dean to be frustrated with a hunt for being too simple. "We'll tackle that problem tomorrow morning after we can get our stuff together and drop Sam off at school."

Suddenly, there was a loud scream from outside. John started, slamming the coffee pot in his hand down on the counter and exchanging a look with Dean before they both ran outside. They looked around urgently, trying to find the source of the scream. "It came from by the river," Dean said, running back to the stairs that led down to the rocky banks. He thundered down them, John closely at his heels.

A young woman was sitting, sprawled, on a few of the rocks, shaking and sobbing, obviously in shock. She pointed weakly at the river, where John could make out the shape of a body floating in the shallows, face down. Dean quickly ran to comfort the girl while John pulled the body from the water. The body was fresh, but the eyes were sunken, the skin even paler than normal. John laid out the corpse. He pulled out the cell phone he had for emergencies, quickly dialing 9-1-1 and reporting the body.

When the police arrived, he went along with them to answer questions. Dean stayed with the girl until she had finished her statement, then gently helped her up, disappearing with her. John trusted him to get the girl home – as much as Dean liked girls, he knew the boundaries with a victim. He stayed for a while, trying to get as much information on what had happened before heading back home.

Dean was waiting for him as soon as he walked in. "Dad, that body was bled dry," he said as soon as he saw John, obviously having held back this bit of information for too long.

John nodded, turning up the heat. He hadn't thought to take his coat with him when they ran out, and now he was freezing. "You take that girl home?"

Dean nodded. "She's fine. A little shaken up, but she was just on a walk when she found the stiff. So, what'd you find out? Our kinda gig?"

John shook his head. "Those were knife marks on the body. You want my opinion, it's just some sick bastard doing this for kicks." He could never understand people that wanted to cause more destruction and death. If only they knew how much was out there as is…

Dean made a face at that. "Man, I don't get people," he muttered, plopping down on the sofa. "Let's get back to the black dog. That I do get."

John felt a pang of sadness at that. What would Mary have thought about him raising her sons so that they understood a man-eating monster better than men themselves? He buried the thought away. He did what he had to for his sons to be safe and prepared. "Yeah, alright. Do we have all the weapons we need for the hunt together?"

"Yep," Dean answered proudly. "Now we just have to find where their den might be."

-X-

Sam was in a much better mood when they picked him up after school, and John thought he might actually appreciate his plans to take them to eat out together instead of ordering take out as usual when they were staying somewhere. "How about we go grab something to eat together, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said breathlessly, clearly more occupied with telling Dean about his day. John grinned and started towards the nearest diner. "Dude, the debate team is _awesome_…"

Dean listened to his brother, nodding and occasionally poking fun at something Sam had said, getting a halfhearted glare between words from Sam. John watched them both with a smile as he drove.

Sam was still wearing Dean's ears off as they entered the diner, talking now about his newest friends, who seemed to have accepted him into their group exceptionally quickly. John was glad. Maybe now Sam wouldn't be so upset about his previous school. A black haired waitress came up, and he quickly indicated three, trying not to interrupt Sam's babbling.

The waitress smiled, leading them to an empty booth. "First day at school, huh?" she asked, notepad at the ready. Sam blushed, nodding shyly. He probably hadn't realized just how animated he was getting. "Tell you what," she said, laughing gently at his embarrassment. "I'll throw in some ice cream on the house as a celebration."

"Thanks," Sam mumbled, trying to hide behind Dean, who was trying not to laugh. The waitress took their orders and left, letting Dean burst into giggles.

John, on the other hand, wasn't looking. He was watching the spare TV the diner had, the news scrolling along with subtitles. They had found where the man had come from, and determined that he had been killed by some fanatic cultist. There were plenty of those out there, John was sure, but watching the footage of the altar where the man had been killed, he was without a doubt sure that whoever this was, they weren't insane.

They knew what they were doing.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, you thing these guys are the real deal?" Sam asked, sounding remotely interested as they returned to the house. John looked at him, surprised.

"I recognize the altar from somewhere. If they're not the real deal, they've heard from someone who is," he replied, noticing that Dean was also looking up, watching the exchange with tentative interest. "Why?"

Sam shrugged his backpack off beside the coat rack. "I just thought… maybe I could look into it, you know?" He scrubbed his foot against the floor.

John crossed his arms. It was obvious that Sam wanted to do research to help better his chances of getting something, most likely school related. "In exchange for what?" he asked. He didn't want to make Sam feel like a brat, but beating around the bush was never his strong suit.

Sam cringed, put out that he had been discovered so quickly. "Nothing," he mumbled, annoyed, making for the stairs.

"Now, wait, Sam," John called after him. Sam froze, shoulders hunched and one hand gripping the railing even tighter. "Come here."

Sam hesitated, but slowly he let his hand fall from the railing and came back into the room to face John, jaw already set in defiance. John took a deep breath, trying to arrange his words so that they didn't just cause another fight between the two of them. Dean stood behind Sam, his eyes pleading silently for John not to tangle with Sam yet again. "What is it you want?" John asked, though his voice sounded too gruff even to his own ears. "Maybe it will work out."

"A couple of seniors let me into their project group and I hoped… we could invite them over to work on it?" Sam's patented puppy dog look came out to play, looking halfway hopeful.

John sighed, pausing to think. It would be a hassle to have people over. After all, there was little way to explain salt lines, what they did for a living, or why they moved around so much. However, after the last fight, John wanted to make it up to Sam. He really did think this was one of the few places they'd ended up staying where Sam really had the potential to enjoy himself, and for once, he wanted to make up all those missed Christmases and crappy living conditions to him. Not for the first time, he wished Sam was as simple to deal with as Dean. "Fine," he said finally. Sam's jaw dropped. Dean's eyes widened and he muttered a quick Cristo under his breath. John glared at him, then purposefully softened his gaze. "I want you to enjoy yourself while… I want you to like it here. I really do. As long as you put back the salt lines the minute they leave, it's alright."

Sam was rooted to the spot for an absurdly long time. Finally, a grin broke out on his face. "Dad, you're awesome!" he cried, thundering up the stairs. "I'm gonna call them right now!"

John shook his head, chuckling at his youngest. He looked over at Dean, who smiled quietly, in that little boy way that still emerged sometimes when Dean wasn't grinning like an idiot but really, really happy. "Thanks," he said, following Sam up the stairs without another word.

He sat down on the couch, waiting for Sam to come pounding back down the stairs. "I'm going to the library!" he cried.

"Take your brother with you!" John cut in as quickly as possible. It was still hard to let his youngest out into the world without some protection, especially with a bloodthirsty cult out there, despite the fact that Sam was without a doubt one of the most prepared fifteen year olds out there and he was practically as tall as Dean by now.

"Thanks, Dad," Dean whined. "Now I've got to sit with Francis here…" Nevertheless, Dean was shrugging on his jacket and bounding to catch up with an eager Sam.

When the flurry of his boys had died down, John went to change into a suit so that he could go investigate the murder. He would start at the morgue and then see what happened. Though it was risky to drive the Impala to something so professional, he did it anyway – their budget didn't include an extra car unless they really, truly needed it.

He was almost at the morgue when he first remembered the previous hunt he'd agreed to. He cursed and pulled out his phone to call Joshua. He left a quick message on Joshua's answering machine, certain that the hunter could find another person to kill black dogs – they weren't that difficult compared to other things that were out there. He slid the phone back into his jacket and walked in, displaying a bogus badge to get him in. It always made him shudder a little how easy that had become.

"Agent Drummel," said a young man with glasses, extending a hand to shake John's. "Tom Aidenson. I wasn't informed the FBI were on this case."

"We're not sure we are. We're seeing if this might connect to a case we've had in New York. The preliminary reports seem to show that it might be the work of the same organization."

"Ah," the Aidenson said, smiling slightly nervously. "Well, then, you know this is most likely the work of a cult."

John nodded. "Yes, I'm aware. Were there any wounds or markings that stood out? Symbols, perhaps, on the body?"

"No, none," Aidenson replied, leading John to a drawer and drawing it out. "But the cuts were all made to bleed the victim slowly, and they were all made while the victim was alive." Aidenson looked sick as he said it, and John tried not to laugh. Poor boy shouldn't have become a mortician if death disturbed him so much. He looked down at the pale, dead face. _It is a fairly awful way to die,_ he thought. If he was trying to be more understanding, it didn't have to stop with Sam.

However, it was harder to look down at a dead body and feel sympathy for it – it made his heart clench and wonder if this man had his own children, fatherless now, if they were one parent down just like his boys. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and the urge to ask if Aidenson knew the man. "Where did he go missing from, again?" John asked, though he hadn't known in the first place.

"From the hospital," Aidenson said. John grunted, trying not to appear surprised. "People thought it was odd, you know, before he turned up dead. He… it was like he just walked out, without taking care of the paperwork, just… left. After an appendectomy, nothing like a bullet wound or anything…" The younger man was babbling nervously now, occasionally fidgeting with his glasses. John tried to ignore him and focus on the wounds, gain some more insight.

There was a long time of blessed silence. "I knew him, you know," Aidenson said quietly. "Real family guy, though he never got married. Lived right down the block, always with his nieces and nephews. Always had something nice to say when you walked by, you know?" John finally looked up, and the younger man blinked rapidly. "I see a lot of death, but… guy like him didn't deserve to die like this."

He had to distance himself from this. There was no way that he could get through this case if he got bogged down by the same sort of emotional baggage as this boy. "Listen… Tom… was it?" Tom nodded. John doubted he was much older than Dean. "This sort of thing happens. It's awful, I know, but you have to carry on. Sick people like the ones who did this don't care about how nice a guy was or how good a person they were. That's why we have to catch them." Tom nodded, swallowing thickly. "Now, can you give me his address?"

Tom nodded, scrawling down the address on a piece of paper and handing it over quickly. He coughed in an effort to clear the tears from his throat. "Agent… I don't know if this is connected to your case or not, but… if it is, try to find the guys, will you?"

John met the kid's blue eyes and nodded. Occasionally it was hard to see, but there were good people out there as well. "Yeah," he said. "I will." He reached out and shook Tom's hand, then walked out to the car. It was just starting to drizzle as he walked out, so he hurried to the car and drove back home. He would check out the place tonight when he could pick the door without being seen.

When he walked in, he found that his kitchen seemed to have grown an extra person who was chattering away aimlessly while she fried some onions in the frying pan he didn't realize they owned. He looked around, slightly panicked, for Dean and Sam, who were unharmed and sheepishly sitting at the kitchen table. "Boys… who's this?" he asked carefully, crossing his arms.

"She followed us home. Can we keep her?" Dean asked, grinning. "Because what she's cooking smells amazing."

"You smell amazing," the girl countered, as though Dean had just dealt out a grievous insult. She set the frying pan and extended her hand to John. John glared at it, then nodded to his sons.

"In the hall. Now," he growled.

"It was pouring and she was walking home so we let her in," Dean said, lowering his voice, as soon as they were in the hall, elbowing Sam subtly behind him as if to take the blame. John felt a pang of guilt at becoming a threat, but his boys had to see what was really a threat – monsters, for one, CPS, for another.

"Who is she?" he growled.

"She showed me around today," Sam said, pushing away Dean's arm. "And she was walking home in the rain."

"What about the salt lines, Sam, huh? Did you come up with an excuse for that?" John hissed under his breath.

Dean held up a finger. "That's the thing…" he said, with a cocky grin. "Her family uses them too. It's a common tradition for the farmers outside of town."

_There are OCs, but don't worry, there won't be romance, except for between OCs and that will be sparse – but I'm staying away from Mary Sues._


	4. Chapter 4

_Since the last few chapters were all so short and this one is about to be uber long, I combined the last three… So no, no technical error, this seriously is the second chapter. XD_

_Disclaimer: I am eternally grateful to Kripke and all them for making these boys for me to play with. Seriously._

"So, your grandfather has the same tradition, huh?" John asked. "Never knew where it came from." He paused, trying to seem as though he hadn't been burning to ask this same question since his boys had told him this girl's reaction to the salt lines when they had let her into the hallway. It seemed Dean and Sam were just as curious as he was, which was why they had invited her over for dinner (which somewhere along the line ended up being cooked by her.) "He ever say what it's from? I just learned it from my aunt."

She shrugged, throwing back a lock of plain brown hair as she tossed a package of beef into her cooking. John didn't know they _had _any beef, much less any of the spices she was using. He occasionally made pancakes, sure, but those certainly didn't use paprika. "Ghosts, probably," she answered. John had already blanked on her name.

"Ghosts," he repeated, not having to fake his shock. She said it so simply, as though ghosts were a normal part of life, not just for her, but for everyone around her. It wasn't even a question that anyone might doubt her.

"Sure," she said, turning to look for something. There was an utter, unremarkable plainness about her, and if John hadn't actually talked to her, she would have been, for all intents and purposes, totally invisible and unmemorable. "There's plenty out in the woods where my grandpap lives."

"Ghosts," John said again, dryly, trying to communicate how utterly insane that (should have) sounded.

"Yep. Most people don't believe me, but I broke a salt line once, and it was crazy. Grandpap says it's because there's been some evil stuff in this town." She paused, leaning against the counter. "Got any cooking salt?"

John shrugged. They had been here a grand total of two days in which he hadn't cooked anything. "Check the cabinets." He finally couldn't stand it anymore. "Where'd you get these ingredients?"

"Oh, Mrs. Winters across the street let me use them. She owes me for babysitting anyway."

John paused, not sure how to broach the topic of this girl without being rude, since she didn't seem to fit into any part of society he had ever seen and so didn't seem to warrant the same rules of manners. "Ah… why are you cooking if you're our guest?"

"Oh, I love cooking, it gets my mind off of… things, you know?" she said, suddenly flustered. With a clumsy turn, she returned back to searching the cabinets. "_Anyway…_" She pulled out a canister of salt from one of the cabinets. "Grandpap does talk much about what happened. I think it had something to do with… well… my parents, you know?"

She was silent for a long time, stirring the stew-like food she'd been putting together. John shook his head in bewilderment. "So, you and Sam… know each other from school?"

"Well, know is a relative term, I guess, but we have history together."

"Henrietta's one of the girls in my group," Sam volunteered. "So she'll be back over tomorrow."

_Great,_ John thought. Although she seemed friendly enough, there was just something weird about this girl. Not job weird, at least, just… hard to handle weird. He eyed the pot of water she was putting on the stove. "Er…" he said, not really sure where to go from here. He wasn't exactly the social type. "How far out do you live?"

"Couple of miles down the interstate," she piped, leaning against the counter again, brown eyes big and innocent. John couldn't help but feel that naivety like that could only be an act, especially if one was an orphan living with a haunted grandfather. _Still_, he thought, looking over at Sam. _He does like her_. Besides, there was nothing even remotely sinister about this girl. He was just overreacting.

"Isn't that a long way to walk?" Dean asked. It was ironic, because Dean had walked a lot longer. He'd run laps a lot longer.

"It's been one of those days and I like walking," she said, and that was clearly the end of the matter.

"In the rain, though?" Sam asked.

"It wasn't raining when I left home," she replied, using spaghetti as a none too subtle excuse to look away.

There was silence while the spaghetti cooked and she put plates in front of them. "So, Henrietta…" he said, leaning his elbows on the table.

"Mhmm?" she asked, watching him expectantly while she bustled around, serving them food. Dean gave her a smooth grin and she returned it as an exaggerated copy. Dean managed to look marginally embarrassed for a split second, so quickly that only Sam and John caught it. Sam exchanged a look with John and tried not to laugh. John smirked at his the entertainment of the youngest.

"Do you know if this… evil… that your grandfather talks about has anything to do with the recent…"

"Mr. Murphy?" Henrietta looked up, surprised. "Sure." Her shoulders jerked quickly. John raised an eyebrow. "I guess whenever there's evil, there's people that like it. Want it back after it's gone, you know?" Her eyes were sincere as she met his. "It's awful, really."

John couldn't hold her gaze after that. _She is a good cook_, he thought, focusing on the red stew in front of him. Henrietta ate with them in amicable silence, looking out the window occasionally. Dean finished up his food, following her gaze. "I can drive you home, if you want," Dean volunteered.

"Hmm?" she asked, having been distracted. His words slowly clicked in her brain. "Oh. Yeah, sure." She stood, grabbing her plate and Dean's and placing them in the sink before grabbing her jacket. "Thanks for dinner!" she said cheerfully.

"You cooked," John reminded her dryly.

"Right. Well, thanks for letting me cook." John resisted the urge to clap a hand to his face.

"Thanks for cooking," Sam interjected. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you!"

She and Dean left, and though John couldn't hear their conversation after they walked into the hallway, their tones made it obvious that they were flirting shamelessly with each other. He listened for the door closing, then turned to Sam. "Did you find anything at the library?"

Sam shook his head. "We found too much at the library," he said, pulling out a notebook. "There's a ton of rituals that take blood sacrifices, even ones that are… well… all the blood in the body."

"How many?"

"Uh… ninety-seven with blood rituals, twenty-two like ours."

"And the altar?"

"Pretty typical, from what you've told me. Narrows it down to seventeen."

"Anything in common?"

Sam huffed a quick sigh. "A lot of them are for pagan gods or spirits of some kind, I guess, but it's hard to know which one. A lot of them have other ingredients, though, so we might be able to narrow it down by seeing if anyone has bought them lately. We'd have to start at some nature stores… a lot of them are fairly common spices or stuff that grows naturally."

John nodded, grabbing up a paper. "Alright. Let's go through your notes and make a list."

Sam was silent. After a moment, John looked up to see if Sam was angry. Lately, he didn't know what insulted his youngest and what didn't. Sam's face was unreadable, but he shot John a quick smile. "Thanks," he said quietly. "You were nice to Henrietta."

Unsure of what to do, John just grunted softly and nodded again. Sam pulled his chair closer without another word and they silently went through the list of herbs and plants. The door clicked closed, and Dean came in, staring at the spectacle before him. He turned back around and went up the stairs without remarking on it.

-X-

The next day had been spent fruitlessly searching for lone buyers of herbs at nature stores. Insofar as they could tell, all these spices were commonly bought by restaurants and not by anyone else without an affiliation... or without a restaurant that had been in town for the past few decades and was well known.

"Maybe they've just got an inside garden," Dean suggested, checking his watch. "Sam's gonna be home soon." It had been an eternity since they had had friends over, and John could tell that the thought of Sam at home alone with strangers made Dean nervous, though Dean tried his hardest not to show it.

"Yeah. Let's go home and hide the pots from Henrietta."

Dean grinned at that. "I liked her. She's… really weird, but I liked her." John grunted tonelessly, sending Dean into quiet snickers.

They ended up arriving home at just the same time that Sam did, pulling up in a slightly rickety old Dodge. Sam slid from the backseat, waving at Dean. Henrietta followed him, her brown hair pulled up into a ponytail. "Wow, you guys have good mmphhhhh!" she began, cut off by another girl hopping from the front seat and pulling her along with a hand over her mouth and an elbow around her throat.

"Don't mind Henrietta, she has restless mouth syndrome." Henrietta cried out indignantly, obviously unfazed by the hand over her mouth since she was only too happy to defend herself quickly and loudly. Her friend hauled her along, extending her free hand to John and Dean respectively. Dean was laughing nearly to the point of tears at Henrietta's severely not amused expression. "I'm Tori Marshal."

"John Winchester."

"Dean."

Sam walked up to the door with the driver of the car, a blonde boy with sparkling blue eyes and a brown vest. "Leave the poor girl alone," he scolded Tori.

Tori rolled her eyes and unhanded Henrietta, who playfully kicked her in the shin. The boy extended a hand, much like Tori, and introduced himself. "Xavier Partin." He had an arrogant smile with a certain kindness and cleverness about him, and he reminded John of Dean in some ways. Honestly, all three of them did in certain aspects, and he wondered if that was why Sam was so fond of them.

He didn't feel quite so wrong about letting them into the house. He let them in, and Sam led them to the living room to throw down their bags and pull out a whole range of books and folders. John left to work in the upstairs room, hearing the laughter of the teens downstairs as he did. Occasionally, he heard Dean's soft footsteps wandering hesitantly to his room and back before he finally stayed downstairs with Sam and his friends, another rarity, maybe because Sam never had any over.

He was reading through the mythology of the area when Sam poked his head in. "Tori and Henrietta are cooking. Want any?"

John shrugged, tucking away the book somewhere where it wouldn't stand out too much if anyone happened to see it, just in case. He followed Sam down the stairs where the small group was already seated around the table. Henrietta and Dean seemed to be having a competition on who could come up with the worst pickup line. At the moment, the contender seemed to be, "I lost my number. Can I borrow yours?"

He announced his arrival with a quick quirk of his eyebrows, effectively shutting Dean and Henrietta up, quietly stifling giggles at each other. It was only through years of practice finding out people's darker secrets that he even noticed the way she held back from Dean's flirting in a way that women rarely did or the way her brown eyes slid ever so slightly towards Xavier when she wasn't paying attention.

Which was why she was walking three miles in the rain and cooking at random people's houses to get her mind off of him. Suddenly, John liked her. Just like every other teen in the world, he knew what unrequited love could feel like or the dumb things you could do for it. Honestly, if cooking strangers stew was her coping mechanism, she was probably the most benevolent person on the planet.

He pulled up the chair beside her, and she gave him a nervous and polite smile, scooting closer to Xavier to make room. "So… why is your son a genius?"

"Says the girl done with three years of college math…" muttered Tori, sticking out her tongue. She shoved a portion of spaghetti and sauce onto each plate with an expert hand.

"Shut up!" Henrietta cried loudly. "I'm failing history!"

"By failing, she means a high B+," Xavier said, and Henrietta threw up her arms, collapsing down onto the table with her arms spread out before her and her hair flopping over her head in a crown, loud, theatrical sobs completing the spastic movement. Xavier shook his head and started poking at his food. "Tori, I can never bring myself to eat your food. It's like a masterpiece."

"Grew up with a waitress," Tori explained to John, who wasn't sure whether to focus on her or how Henrietta was still breathing.

"Ah. Right," he said, lost for words.

He went ahead and dug in rather than fumble for more to say. Everyone else followed suit. After a long time of silence, Xavier looked at his watch. "I have a date with Amy tonight," he said, sounding bored.

"I thought you broke up?" Henrietta said, amused.

"I tried!"

"Of course you did."

"I hate my girlfriend."

Henrietta looked at John. "He doesn't."

"I do. Henry and I are gonna get married," Xavier defended, with the air of a practiced game.

"Don't tell Amy," Henrietta quoted, rolling her eyes so that Xavier couldn't see.

"Don't tell Amy," he parroted.

"Amy knows," she mouthed.

John looked at them, confused. Tori flicked spaghetti at the two, then looked at John, hilariously serious. "Xavier likes to tell people that he hates his girlfriend that I see him holding hands with every day in the hallway."

"It's her fairy dust! She throws it in my face and I'm in love with her again!"

"And he likes to flirt with other girls and not tell Amy even though Amy knows and doesn't care because she knows he's just being a goober."

"He tells Amy not to tell Amy," Henrietta added, and John felt sorry for her, always playing a game that simulated what she wanted and never getting it. "And Amy says it's okay because she loves me too." _Ah_, John thought. _He's dating a friend, so she doesn't want to get in the way_.

Henrietta turned back to Xavier. "When's your date?"

Xavier looked at his watch. "As soon as I can finish this spaghetti."

She nodded silently, trying not to look downtrodden. There was an awkward silence until Henrietta finished her food. "Anyway!" she cried. "I have to go too, grandpap's worried I'll get bled to death and all…"

"I'll drive you home," Xavier volunteered.

"No, no! You've got a date and all…"

"You can't honestly just walk, it's almost dark!"

"It's fine, really!" Henrietta was starting to get that caged animal look, wanting to be away from the swamping attention that was just tantalizing and not rewarding. That look was a lot like Dean as well, and John had to intervene.

"I can drive you," he said.

"Really?" She, Sam and Dean all looked so relieved that John didn't even finish his food, just stood and grabbed his jacket wordlessly. Henrietta said her goodbyes quickly and hurried after him. Though he was sure that she was glad to have his own silent manner hide her hurry to get away, he didn't turn around to see if he was right.

They walked out to the car, getting in and rolling out into the street in total silence. He was almost out to the interstate before he asked her where he was going. She gave him quick, simple directions and there was silence for a long time. "You know about the monsters, don't you?" Henrietta said quietly, looking out the window at the darkening sky.

John said nothing. Silence couldn't be held against him. "You're in love with that boy, aren't you?" he countered.

"He's dating my friend. End of story." Out of the corner of his eye, he could only see her hair shift, but he was sure her brown eyes were fixed on him.

"What monsters?" he asked, hands clenching on the wheel. Now that he was being honest, his guard was up even further.

She shrugged. "I don't know. All I've seen is the people it's taken. They're angry, because people are trying to bring it back, but they'll attack anyone without the salt lines. There's been some deaths out there. They say coyotes, but I've seen 'em." She shuddered. "They haven't got eyes."

John finally glanced at her. "What do you mean, they haven't got eyes?"

"The ghosts. They… they've got holes in their heads 'stead'a eyes. No lids or anything. Just… holes." John frowned. That might be important. He made a mental note to tell Sam about that. "You think you can take these people down? Whoever is trying to bring back the monster?" She looked so innocent, like Dean when he was four and Mary was still alive, but skeptical, carved by tragedy just like their family.

"I'll try," he said gruffly.

"I hope so you can." She paused, then looked out the window, face hidden. "I lost my whole family to trying." She didn't say another word after that but directions, telling him which driveway to go up and then nodding wordlessly when he told her he would watch her until she got inside, circumventing goats and chickens and three, huge dogs.

Her grandfather opened the door for her, his creased, tan face hard, his eyes squinting suspiciously at him. As he put a hand on Henrietta's back and pulled her inside, John couldn't help but think that if all he had of his boys was one of their daughters, he would never let her out of the house.

-X-

The next day was composed entirely trying to find any myth that needed a blood sacrifice and who had a thing about eyes. Mostly, it was listening to Dean whine about how they _could _have been hunting black dogs at this moment and finding nothing. John finally threw down the book he had been trying (and failing) to read. "Isn't it time to pick up Sam?" he growled.

Dean checked his watch, oblivious. "It's a little early, Dad."

"I really think you should go pick up Sam."

This time, Dean took the hint and was gone in a matter of seconds, but the damage was done, and John was too distracted and annoyed to read another word. He sighed and picked up Sam's notes, at least hoping to pretend to look through consistencies. He wasn't sure if it was just him, but it seemed that there were none.

Sam, of course, came back in a storm, the door slamming into the wall so hard, it probably left a dent, the backpack doing the same. The book slid from John's hand in surprise, and he stood with a growl. "Dammit, Sam, why do you have to…" he began to yell, but Sam cut him off breathlessly.

"Henrietta's missing."

_I was going to make this chapter a lot longer, but as I was going over the stuff I wanted to happen, I realized this was about where I wanted to end it. So, I have a large chunk of next chapter written, which means it will be up pretty soon after the AP tests die down… probably next week sometime, unless my nerves allow me to write more._


End file.
